


Locked and Lost

by TwilightDeviant



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Emotional Manipulation, Kidnapping, M/M, Non-Consensual Body Modification, deaf Matt Murdock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-17
Updated: 2020-06-17
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:55:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24772012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TwilightDeviant/pseuds/TwilightDeviant
Summary: Matt was in a cage, put there by Fisk and unable to break free. Within the meaninglessness of his confinement, he would regret asking what more could be taken.
Relationships: Wilson Fisk/Matt Murdock
Comments: 8
Kudos: 39





	Locked and Lost

**Author's Note:**

> I have shipped Fisk/Matt since I first watched Daredevil in 2015. Over time, I feel as though it has become my OTP, but you wouldn’t know that based on the almost zero content I’ve created for them. Well, I FINALLY completed a fic for the ship. Yay! It’s a short one and very dark, but maybe I’ll finish my others eventually.
> 
> Enjoy!

“What do you want from me?”

He asked that in the beginning.

“Why am I here?”

He did not ask anymore.

“Why don’t you just kill me and get it over with?”

Matt wondered that most of all.

None of his questions ever received answers. It was fruitless to ask anything, and so he devoted all his time and effort trying to escape from the man, the Kingpin, who put him in a locked room.

If he could caution his past self, Matt would have warned to stay right where he was and accept his fate. Unending imprisonment by an enemy was horrific, but it could always worsen.

* * *

Cooler air rushed in, a sensation sandwiched between vibrations. Wall shook as the door opened and closed inside its mounted frame. Bare feet helped him feel the rumbling in concrete, indication of a second footfall heavy enough to be only one person.

Matt approached, quickly and then calmer when he realized how eager he might appear— or how antagonistic his intentions might seem. There was no violence in him, not even its idea.

He laid two fingers against Fisk’s neck. The fear of him choking the man was there once and even now as a strong heart beat against Matt’s fingertips. It always settled itself, however, recognizing the necessity and the lack of any assault. Matt did not try to strangle him, not anymore. He only wanted to listen.

“Rain.”

That was the day’s weather. Matt’s idle hand could already tell. Fisk’s coat was damp along the edges. His speech merely confirmed the outside conditions out of courtesy. He dictated the weather for Matt, and he used one lone syllable to keep it simple, so the blind man— the deaf man— could feel the resonance in his hand and assume the spoken word he did not hear.

Matt was getting better at it, better at guessing from vibrations when the sound waves met his skin. Different words had different frequencies, emphasis, and pauses. Sometimes he did not need to touch Fisk’s vocal cords at all, though it helped.

He brushed the rain again. It smelled different than water led from pipes. It smelled like ozone and outside, as did all of Fisk. That was why Matt enjoyed sniffing the man, an action whose subtlety he abandoned some time ago. Fisk indulged him and said nothing. Matt put his face against chest and neck. When he opened his mouth, he tasted the rain on his tongue. It was all allowed from a man who denied him nothing while taking everything.

* * *

His prison was nearly inescapable. It was simple but effective to have one guard open the door while another pointed a stun gun— though fingers twitched for the lethal one at his belt. They did not have to kill the vigilante to stop him. A bullet in the leg would do fine.

It took no small amount of metal bending and manipulation, but eventually, Matt managed to pick the lock with the tines of a fork from his dinner.

That was the first escape attempt. He enacted it after three days and it lasted eleven minutes— two minutes if the time he spent fighting did not count as freedom.

After that, a keypad was installed, and with it came a warning.

“Consider this... beating a lenity,” Fisk told him. Matt was bruised, swollen, and bloodied. A bullet barely missed him, and a finger bone was surely fractured. Everything would heal. “If you... try it again,” he was cautioned, “I will take the hearing... from one of your ears.” He lied! “You’re blind already,” said the man, “so I know how important what you have left must- must be.”

He was right, of course. Matt prized his hearing over any remaining sense. It was his greatest asset. And because of his superhuman hearing, he had the key code for the door in one day after one entry.

Matt hesitated on his second escape. Fisk was an evil man, and so a threat of wanton cruelty, of having his hearing taken, was not without validity. Matt believed him, but Matt also had no intentions of being caught again.

He almost made it to the exterior door. That escape lasted seventeen minutes.

The keypad was replaced with a lock that had no access from the inside. There was no key to replicate or code to repeat.

All that remained was his punishment.

Fisk let him choose which ear went first, calling it magnanimity. After hours of wasted promises and pleading, picking left seemed clear. The right was Matt’s dominant side, and he turned towards it most often.

It hurt to be robbed of half his hearing through abuse to the intricate bones inside— not physically, that pain was negligible and numbed with medication. His suffering came from losing another piece of the world, one of the few he had left. Long ago, Matt mourned his sight, but he adapted. From this, he took a deeper wound.

Deprivation hurt worse after thirty years of familiarity than after a quick nine.

Everything Matt saw was twilight now. The world was not pitch black, more it was silhouetted. He could still make out the same shapes as before. He simply saw them with less detail and more turns of his head.

So detrimental was his handicap, however, he almost did not notice when the door caught without clicking. The lock did not fall into its cradle, did not activate. Matt could push and it would open.

He could.

He did not.

For an hour, Matt sat in his room, contemplating the door. He could escape with nothing but a guard’s incompetence to blame. He could go free!

If it failed, there were consequences, and now Matt knew Fisk did not bluff. He would do it. He would take the rest of his hearing. But how long, Matt reasoned, until another charge was fabricated to force a discipline that felt inevitable? If Fisk wanted to deafen him, he would. It was only a matter of time. That knowledge, if nothing else, made Matt try the third escape. He had to.

God did not keep the door from closing. That was the Devil’s work.

“Entrapment,” Matt called it, and then he called Fisk a number of foul words on top.

“You told me you would not try to run again,” the man said, speaking of the empty promises Matt made weeks ago, before the loss in his left ear. “I wanted to... see if it was true.”

“You can’t do this!” Matt cried. “You can’t... Don’t. Please!” It was one thing to put on a heroic face and say he would rather die than beg from his enemy. That virtue withered at the prospect of losing something so important to him, so necessary to his fractured way of living, so crucial for enjoying conversations, music, audio books, traffic, heartbeats, the world! “Please,” he whispered, “don’t do this.”

“You did it,” Fisk accused, washing his hands and placing every fault on Matt. The man did nothing except honor his word, which was better than Matt had done, and now there was a price to pay for dishonesty. “You... Matthew, are forcing my hand.” Fisk wanted to think of himself as powerless. He had to do what Matt made him do, no matter how reluctant— how remorseful!— he sounded over the outcome.

His regret was one of the last things Matt ever heard.

He fell into depression for a long time after that. Days passed and he stopped counting. The bed was always full of him. Matt drifted into sleep when he felt like it or when it happened, unmindful to time of day. He ate when he wanted, seldom as it was, and the selection of food (breakfast, lunch, or dinner) was the greatest implication of the hour he ever kept, not that he gave it any focus.

His recovery felt no haste in ending, in accepting a damaged and useless life. Imprisonment was an idle existence, and whether he slept or whether he entertained himself, no difference was made. He was barely a person anymore. He could be one again, Matt heartened himself, if he ever got out. He could find new hurdles to jump, deafness after blindness, and still be a lawyer.

He could have friends and have a life again— if he ever got out.

When Matt woke from the surgery on his second ear, Fisk told him everything would always be reversible. He had it written down in Braille for Matt to read. The note omitted what they both knew: reversed hearing loss would never take him back to his previous efficiency, perhaps not even what he had before his original accident. And of course, such a gift would only ever come if Matt were on his best behavior.

He did not try escaping a fourth time.

Matt did not believe promises that even a limited range of hearing might be returned to him, no matter what was said, but Fisk could always take his tongue.

He stayed in bed and was little better than a blind, deaf zombie for months, drifting in a dark world that oppressed and frightened him. There was a pocket in his immediate surroundings where touch and smell compensated. The world rarely expanded unless someone opened and slammed the door, and when that happened, there was the smell of food and bodies to confirm it for him. But mostly, Matt’s life reduced itself to the mattress, from side to side and head to foot. It was there, and only there, he felt secure.

The bed began on the middle of a wall. After his surgery, Matt pushed it into a corner for some semblance of safety. He could put his back against cold brick and know that no one would sneak up on him. It was more difficult to tell now.

Everything was difficult. Sometimes, he could barely orient himself and had to press his hand on the wall and gesture with his foot to find something— to find the bathroom. All the tricks they taught him as a blind man finally mattered.

“Count your steps.”

“Stay organized.”

“Cover sharp corners.”

The inspiration to be in any way productive was nowhere to be found. He did not want to do anything, not even to make his own life better, easier.

Matt considered killing himself. He wondered why he had not done so already and if the only answer was Catholicism and damnation. Or was it because there was still hope in him somewhere? He hoped he could break free. He hoped someone would save him. He hoped if he did nothing rebellious, Fisk might restore his hearing.

None of his hopes transpired.

Matt stayed in bed doing precious little, his constant until interruption.

The door opened and it closed. There was no food, and the smell was of a man familiar to him and yet not the everyday delivery boys.

Footsteps pounded on concrete and Matt sat up in his cocoon of sheets. He shuffled into the corner, putting mattress width between himself and Fisk. It was hardly a chasm to cross, and when the man sat on an edge and reached, Matt’s knee could still be touched. He pulled it away.

Air blew on him in stilted exhales, as though the man said, “Shh, shh, shh,” to console him, to comfort him, to settle his nerves. Matt almost wanted to be a fool and believe he meant no harm— no further harm.

“You... ing... bed. Wasting...ay. When...”

Those were the only syllables strong enough to make impressions in the air. Matt did not know what he said and did not care to piece it together. He had words of his own.

“You said that...” He stopped. It was his first time speaking since the conclusion of his hearing. There was nothing except the rumble in his throat, the smell of his breath. He coughed and tried again, behaving like any other impairment, as if he had in headphones and was trying to talk over music. As with that scenario, he had difficulty picking the correct volume. “You said you could undo this,” he reminded. “I haven’t tried escaping anymore.” Matt hoped that sounded strong and composed, but he knew every word he managed was sabotaged by emotion and by the unwashed grease in his hair, by every other mark on his body and cell that said he no longer cared about anything.

Fisk replied, but Matt caught less than the first time. He knew it was not an agreement to return his hearing.

“Get... up.”

He spoke slow, loud, and exact. Matt understood.

“No.”

The man could punish his actions, but he could not force Matt to move and do as ordered. There had to be something in his withering life he controlled!

Hard fists pulled him from the bed. Matt gave several punches, but even the ones that connected were weak from insufficient meals and muscles that threatened to atrophy. It was barely any work at all for Fisk to carry and drag him to a shower.

Washed body and fresh sheets improved a smell Matt had not noticed. It highlighted the rest of the room and his neglect. When scent became more important than ever before, Matt felt shame at failing the sense. He would clean for his own sake, but not until Fisk left. The man understood his terms when Matt stood there in fresh clothes with arms crossed.

“...be... back.” It was not his last visit.

“I want my hearing!” Matt shouted, and it hurt that no matter how loud he said it, nothing broke through to him. There was only the close vibrations of his own words and the echoes of Fisk’s when he spoke heavy and concise.

“No.”

There was no compassion in him, but there came hospitality.

It began a new chapter in what remained of Matt’s life, a life he did not want but a life he no longer ignored in bed every hour of every day.

It was simple math to count that all Matt had left was touch, smell, and taste. He liked to arouse those senses when he could and Fisk obliged him. Whatever foods Matt wanted, he ate. Silk sheets covered his bed. The softest clothes adorned him. His fingers read any book he considered. Fragranced candles and loud scents were not wanted, but he welcomed savory offerings of organic nature. Their subtlety and tie to the outside world were all he craved.

Whether in days or weeks, Matt adjusted to his novelties. They were always in need of refreshing, and he was always accommodated. He had everything except freedom or sound. His captor was gracious and merciful after cruelty. Fisk spoiled with gifts and kept them fresh and flowing.

There was one stimulation Matt had, however, his favorite, and the infrequency of its presence helped retain the value.

Matt had a sofa in his cell, a firm but comfortable furniture piece. Fisk sat there when he visited, and the breadth of its surface gave Matt space to join him, if he so chose.

The company took many days until he chose it.

Fisk smelled like nothing and no one else. The textures of his clothing and his skin were unlike anything in Matt’s possession. The sensation when he caressed Matt in return was transcendental.

Delicate and groping hands could touch every object in the room, but nothing touched him back. Fisk did. He put hands in Matt’s hair and always kept his brushing and pulling on the kind side of gentle. His nails on Matt’s skin only dragged along and never scratched. Strong hands kneaded muscle in benevolent massage.

Fisk sat on the sofa with Matt pressed against his side and petted him like a prized possession. Matt wanted to hate it, to fight it, but those touches remained his greatest excitation, the greatest evidence he was still alive. Sometimes, pride had to take a loss. Matt could hate himself after Fisk left— and he always did.

The cologne he wore was bespoke, made for him and only him in France, costing five hundred dollars an ounce. He told that to Matt when asked, and he had it transcribed in Braille the next day for edification, as he always did those finer details of conversation. The gesture was not entirely necessary. Matt could already tell it was one-of-a-kind, and price only mattered to the buyer. What he cared about was how the scent presented as masculine yet soft, woody but destined for a conference room. It rested on skin in perfect measure but excessively potent to Matt. That was all right. He enjoyed the smell, even if it could not mask the odor of blood.

Traces of blood often lingered, shoved beneath Fisk’s nails where it was difficult to clean, where perhaps only a keen nose would notice. There was blood on his hands, innocent or evil, Matt would never know. All he received was the acrid stench mixed with lingering pheromones from fear. Dread of a powerful man was reiterated with spilled blood, as once it was for Matt. No more. He was immune to the violence while others took his place, and all he did was smell the aftereffects of their abuse.

It was disgusting and yet Matt was not disgusted. The righteousness he once held was a luxury. The price was too steep to maintain it. And he would, what? Lecture the man about violence and killing, as if he had any leverage to force other methods.

He was nothing to the man whose presence was everything to him.

His everything was Matt’s everything.

Fisk let him taste. It was awkward in the beginning, of course. There was no civilized way to ask or offer. And when the act did happen, it was almost by accident. Fisk let Matt move his great arms into desired positions at will, as though the large man were his doll, as if Matt were the one in command. The cologne was dabbed on his wrists, faded from a day of exertion, but still vibrant to Matt as he pressed it to his face. There was a quality of organic salt on the skin, an attribute uniquely human and distinctly absent from his cell. Matt opened his lips so that any vapors in the air might land upon his tongue. It was in that moment, Fisk adjusted his stiff position on the couch. Matt’s open mouth connected with skin. He tasted.

Fisk did not judge when Matt kept himself there, when he prodded and sucked on his wrist like a vampire— or if he did so judge, he said and did nothing about it. He indulged, that generous and spiteful master.

Matt never kissed him. That was his personal line placed in the sand. He might cross it one day— he probably would, in fact— but that was his future and not his present. For now, he did not. He would taste Fisk’s wrists, lick his neck, even press lips against his cheek, but he did not kiss.

Not yet.

Matt missed being able to say, “Never.”

“Not yet,” was his new greatest adamancy.

It served better than other surrenders of pride.

“Don’t leave.” Matt never could get used to talking without a voice. He imagined he never would. Because of it, he did not speak as often as he once did, only when he had something to say, something important. “Please.”

Fisk put Matt’s hand on his neck. “Tomorrow.”

There was nothing to stop the man walking out the door, and Matt had to let him leave. It was for the best, he tried to reason with himself. If Fisk were around every hour of every day, all the brightness of his presence (the smells, the touches, the tastes) would normalize and lose what made them special. Matt needed that.

It was all he had.

Tomorrow was all he had.

Fisk was all he had.

And he lived with that.

* * *

Fisk closed the door on a creature that did not follow him or fight his departure, that little dear.

He was always going to deafen the boy. He knew that when he took him— before he took him. Matthew Murdock, the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen, was an enemy Fisk did not want to kill. That was too merciful. No, he needed to break his rival.

Going after loved ones was obvious and always an option, but Fisk wanted to toy with the Devil, to experiment with what could be taken while involving no third parties. Murder fostered righteousness, but stealing what a man owned made him nothing but selfish for its return. How much would it take to hurt him then?

It happened sooner than Fisk thought possible. He underestimated the broken character with which he started. Little effort was needed to push a man over when he was already standing on the edge. Fisk knew exactly every requirement to strip from Murdock before docility became him.

He was wrong.

The plans became unnecessary.

Nick his vocal cords so speech came in naught but whispered cries. Take his tongue on the next offense so taste was gone forever. Damage the olfactory nerve after that so he no longer smelled. But never cut the nerves for touch— never!— always let him feel.

Pain of punishment or else pleasure at the hands of his enemy, Matt had to feel that.

In the end, all Fisk stole was freedom and the hearing in both ears. That was what it took to turn a Devil to a kitten, a pet.

His pet.

**Author's Note:**

> So that’s a dark and hopeless ending. But I wanted to write deaf Matt and so I did. I’m a horrible person for loving his brief scene of hearing loss in S2, but I do. His helplessness and panic break my heart.
> 
> There was, of course, the understandable temptation to at least imply a greater and more perverse physical relationship developing with Fisk. But I dunno, the fic felt even more twisted without it, making the touches that are there more difficult to label. It’s simply desperation for Matt to stimulate one of his three remaining senses so he can feel alive. Would things eventually progress to something sexual, presented in a way where Matt even thinks it’s his idea? I don’t rule it out. That would be another new sensation for him to have, a treat rarely indulged and with various methods and levels of pleasure. Having said that, porn isn’t my thing, so it’s not like I’m going to write out such a sequel. Just know that I don’t deny its corrupt eventuality following the events of this fic.
> 
> Anyway! I love kudos and comments. If you wanna leave me some, I’ll dance at your wedding.


End file.
